


All the Swords in the Land

by round_robin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: 4+1, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-typical bathing, Come Swallowing, First Time, Kaer Morhen, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), M/M, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Scar Worship, Size Kink, Walking Armory, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion, extended disarming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24397930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: The dark stranger chuckled from under the hood of his cloak. He tipped his chin up and two golden eyes met Jaskier. He tried not to gasp. Yes, what an idiot he'd been—sitting alone in a dark corner, pack shoved out of sight, two sword hilts barely visible—how did he miss the signs? Mouth gaping, he waited for this new Witcher to give his opinion.A crooked smile peered out from under the hood, half the Witcher's face still hidden. “Geralt hates it.”Or:Four times they were all armed to the teeth, and one time Geralt wasn't.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 66
Kudos: 1114





	All the Swords in the Land

**Author's Note:**

> Extended disarming and walking armory are some of my favorite TV tropes (person removes an absurd amount of knives/weapons; and person who has too many weapons on them at all times, respectively). I don't know if Witcher kit actually includes extra knives, but it seems like they might have a few secreted away somewhere.
> 
> All mistakes are mine, let me know if you find a typo and it'll be fixed. Size kink if you squint. Enjoy :)

1\. Eskel

Geralt was the first Witcher Jaskier met, but he wasn't by any metric the only Witcher.

Their first travels together ended after a few months. Geralt grunted about heading for a “dangerous” contract and insisted Jaskier not follow. He seemed serious this time, not like his other “dangerous” contracts. Werewolves or drowners or Bruxa. As long as he stayed well back, Jaskier knew how to keep himself safe.

But he gave Geralt the benefit of the doubt and did not follow. Suddenly witcherless for the first time in months, Jaskier was at a loss for what to do. He started towards Oxenfurt. Maybe his recent success could buy him a few nights of good food and free space in an old friend's bed. He hit up a few taverns as he went, singing for his supper and eating quite well. It wasn't just Toss a Coin anymore, oh no, Jaskier had a whole repertoire of ballads from Geralt's adventures.

Half way to Oxenfurt, he found a well appointed tavern to play in and soon had the patrons dancing and singing along. The coin rained at his feet and Jaskier was a happy man. But any artist worth his salt knew when his audience was enjoying the performance and when they weren't, and there was one man in the back corner who hadn't reacted to one of Jaskier's songs.

Pint in hand (his third of the night, giving a little liquid courage) he sauntered over to the dark corner and sat across from the stranger. “What did you think of my performance?” he asked. “Three words or less.”

The dark stranger chuckled from under the hood of his cloak. He tipped his chin up and two golden eyes met Jaskier. He tried not to gasp. Yes, what an idiot he'd been—sitting alone in a dark corner, pack shoved out of sight, two sword hilts barely visible—how did he miss the signs? Mouth gaping, he waited for this _new_ Witcher to give his opinion.

A crooked smile peered out from under the hood, half the Witcher's face still hidden. “Geralt hates it.”

Jaskier deflated a little. Geralt hated all his songs, they were about the White Wolf, and he had a problem taking compliments. “How do you know?”

The Witcher reached into his tunic and pulled out his medallion, same wolf head. “We trained together. I'm Eskel.”

“Eskel, good to meet you. I'm Jaskier.”

Eskel chuckled again, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through Jaskier's whole being. “I heard that Geralt picked up a bard. Never would've thought it true. Well, not from him.”

“Yes, he's not the most musical, but he is compelling.” Jaskier tried not to sound so smitten, even though he was. It took weeks for Geralt to notice and finally make his move, sliding his hand up Jaskier's leg. The thought still gave him shivers. Jaskier shook himself out of the memory and returned to the here and now, to the new Witcher in front of him. “But I bet you're all like that. Such exciting lives.”

Eskel shrugged. “Not exciting. Mostly guts and blood and laundry. For far too little pay.”

“Well I'm grateful for what you do.” Jaskier set his purse on the table. “Let me buy you a drink. I'd love to hear some more stories. Who knows, there might be a song of the dark wolf in your future.”

Still hidden by the cloak, Jaskier saw Eskel smile, but there was something sad at the edges of it. “Not all of us are as virtuous or worthy of song as Geralt. He's... he's the golden child of our school.”

“Pfft.” Jaskier waved a hand. “And I was head of my class at Oxenfurt. Doesn't make a difference. I'm in the same tavern as you, looking for good company to while away the night. So what do you say? Buy you a drink?”

He didn't answer for a moment. Then, Eskel looked up, eyes locking with Jaskier. He slowly pulled his hood down, revealing a tangle of scars across the right side of his face. “I'm not as pretty as him, probably can't get a good song out of this face. Still want to buy me that drink?”

“Of course,” Jaskier said without pause. He flagged down the barmaid and ordered two more ales. When they arrived, the woman scurried away quickly at the sight of Eskel's face, but Jaskier hadn't looked away for a moment, eyes soft as he watched Eskel bathed in the gentle fire light of the tavern, his coloring a little warmer than Geralt's. “So,” he said, bumping their mugs together. “Come across anything scary recently?”

It took two more drinks to get Jaskier a little tipsy. Eskel was nowhere near, but he was starting to feel the buzz of warm alcohol in his veins. Which is why, when Jaskier's hand settled on his knee, he didn't push the bard away... at least, that's what he told himself. Eskel didn't know how they got from there to kissing in the stairwell, Jaskier's hot lips kissing up his scar, tongue laving the broken skin.

Eskel didn't let... people didn't touch him, not like that. And here he was, Jaskier's doublet open, his shirt half off, the bard wrapped around him, whispering filthy, lovely things into Eskel's disfigurement. “You don't have to do that,” he whispered as he got the key into his door and pulled them from the hall.

“Do what?” Jaskier mumbled, kissing his eyebrow, rubbing his nose along the edges of the scars. “You don't like it? I can stop.”

Eskel didn't ask him to stop and Jaskier continued on his merry way, licking and kissing, mumbling soft nonsense promises into his skin. Eskel tried not to listen, he didn't want to be fooled by pretty words from a pretty poet. _He only wants one thing from you. Give it to him._

Pushing Jaskier back onto the bed, Eskel started taking off his own clothes. Undressing each other was sexy, but right now, speed was what he wanted. “Take your clothes off,” he grunted. Jaskier sprang into action, throwing his doublet and undershirt to the floor before pulling off his boots (they ended up in opposite corners) and his breeches joined the pile of blue silk. His eyes stayed on Eskel the whole time, watching, his chest heaving, biting his lip in anticipation.

Eskel hadn't had a human look at him like this before. Not even the adventurous boys and girls he sometimes ran into, the ones brave enough to fuck a Witcher to cross that adventure off their list. He tried not to pay attention to Jaskier as he removed his tunic, exposing more scars. He wasn't as ashamed of these, they were earned in the course of his work, not a result of his inadequacy. Jaskier had probably seen similar scars all over Geralt.

He unbelted the knife at the small of his back, then the one at his hip, throwing them with the rest of his gear. He bent down to remove the knife from his boot and Jaskier arched an eyebrow. “Even Geralt only carries two extras.”

Eskel scowled. Yes, he was aware... he knew every bit of his brothers' kit, and he and Lambert urged Geralt to guard himself better. But the White Wolf was too soft and trusting. “Sometimes, Geralt's an idiot.”

“No arguments here.” Eskel bare in front of him, Jaskier leaned back on the bed, arching a little and letting his knees fall open. “Well? You coming?” With a low, rumbling growl, Eskel lunged towards the bed, covering Jaskier completely, impatient lips grabbing his. “Finally,” Jaskier mumbled into the kiss.

Long legs wrapped around Eskel's hips and Jaskier pulled him in close, wrapping his arms around Eskel's shoulders and holding them together. He started kissing his scars again, tiny little pecks and long, smooth licks, catching the edge of his mouth with a kiss before continuing upwards. Jaskier's cock was still hard against him, so Eskel had to assume his appearance wasn't a turn off...

“You don't have to do that,” he huffed.

Jaskier stopped. “If you don't like it, I can stop.” He didn't kiss across Eskel's scar again for a moment. “Do you want me to stop?”

Feeling Jaskier against him, so warm and soft and comforting, Eskel didn't know what he wanted. There was so little softness in his life, even when he paid for it, it was all quick movements and fingers that gripped too hard, half holding him back just in case. Other than Geralt and Lambert, he'd never had someone pull him closer, or who wanted to touch his face. “I don't... I don't know...”

“Well, how about this.” Jaskier kissed the corner of his mouth again, where his lips were torn and wrecked. “When you want me to stop, say so. Until then, I'll keep going. Does that sound good?”

Eskel swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

“Alright then.” One more small kiss to his lips. “Do you have any oil?”

Eskel disentangled from Jaskier long enough to fetch the oil from his bag. As soon as he returned to the bed, the kisses were back—down his neck, the claw marks on his shoulders, the old stab wounds at his ribs—Jaskier searched out every scar and dragged his lips along the skin, licking softly, like a lover. Eskel didn't even care that he hadn't touched his cock yet, his skin was on fire with pleasure, everywhere Jaskier touched sparked with desire. If he hadn't already slept with a succubus, he might start checking for horns.

By the time Jaskier relaxed back onto the bed, Eskel had to shake the fog from his mind and remember what they were doing. Slicking two fingers, he reached between Jaskier's decadently spread legs, watching for any signs of discomfort. The moan the simple touch pulled from Jaskier was fucking unseemly. Though Eskel itched to feel that tight heat around his cock, he found himself taking an extra moment, sliding his fingers in and out, just to get more of those delicious noises.

Jaskier's chest heaved, eyes black with desire. “Come on... please?”

No one begged for a Witcher's cock. It was all “get on with it,” or “I don't have all day.” But the sounds coming from Jaskier were brand new to Eskel's ears and he soon found himself addicted to them.

“You want me?” he whispered, adding a third finger.

Jaskier threw his head back and thrust down on Eskel's fingers. “Fuck yes, I want you inside me, filling me up. I want that fat cock, give it to me _now_.”

Leave it to Geralt to find the craziest bard on the Continent. “You asked for it.” He removed his fingers (earning a punched out little sigh from Jaskier) and dripped some oil over his cock, lining up the head with Jaskier's hole.

It hadn't been that long since he was last with a man, but Eskel was damn certain no one had ever tried to suck him in like that. As soon as the head of his cock popped through the first wave of resistance, Jaskier wrapped his legs around Eskel again and _squeezed_ , catching the Witcher off guard. He bottomed out too fast and it pushed all the breath from his lungs, leaving Eskel panting into Jaskier's neck.

“Yes, just like that.” Jaskier's feet curled around his ass, holding him there for a moment. “Mmm, fuck yeah, you're so big for me.”

“You like it?” Eskel had just enough thought left in his brain to respond. He'd had a girl, a few years ago, compliment the size of his cock. Hadn't happened since, not outside of Geralt or Lambert (but mostly Geralt).

“I love it.” Jaskier rolled his hips, Eskel gripped so tight, had no choice but to go with him, thrusting somehow deeper. “Come on, give it to me.”

Pushing up to his elbows, Eskel gave a soft thrust. When Jaskier didn't grunt in pain or order him off, he thrust again, and again, the only noises those of pleasure. As he found a rhythm, those kisses were back, showering affection on the ruined side of his face, words of love and beauty adorning skin that only attracted hate and scorn.

For the moment, Eskel let himself believe Jaskier's words. The bard had known two Witchers now, and he only had good things to say about Geralt. Maybe... maybe this was the one human who understood, who wouldn't hate him for what he was.

2\. Lambert

Third time lucky. That was the first thought in Jaskier's head when he looked across the bar and saw another pair of golden eyes staring back. Short black hair and a close-cut beard, the Witcher smirked, raising his glass to Jaskier, waggling it a little. _Drink_?

Before Jaskier had a chance to make his way across the room, the Witcher came to him, sliding into the open seat next to Jaskier, getting very close. “Why do you look so familiar? Don't think I've seen you before...” He slid a second mug of ale into Jaskier's hand.

Jaskier smirked and took a sip. “I didn't know Geralt described me that vividly. He and I travel together on and off, one could say I'm his bard.”

“Ha!” He let out a bark of laughter, louder and more boisterous than Geralt's low chuckle or Eskel's soft laugh. “You're the bard? Well fuck me. I'm Lambert, School of the Wolf.”

Jaskier shook the offered hand, their shoulders rubbing together at the awkward angle. Lambert shifted in his seat, knee brushing Jaskier's under the table. “Jaskier, Witcher bard extraordinaire.” He took a sip from the drink, hiding his mouth from the rest of the room and whispering, “'Well fuck me.' Was that an invitation?”

The fire reflected in Lambert's eyes, adding to the dangerous mystique in his scarred, arched eyebrow. “Yes. It was.”

Jaskier would say this for Lambert, he was quicker than the others. Where Geralt took weeks and Eskel an hour or so, Lambert had them up the stairs and in Jaskier's room in less than fifteen minutes. Speed was clearly the priority here, when Jaskier tried to pull Lambert out of his tunic, he pushed the bard back on to the bed, opening his breeches just enough to let his cock out. As the receiving party, Jaskier needed to be a little more naked than that, and Lambert was quick to help him with his boots, anything to speed the process.

A little more fumbling for oil and Lambert sunk two fingers inside him. Jaskier's eyes nearly rolled back in his head at the feeling—so long between Witchers (between lovers, really, because no one else satisfied now) and Jaskier almost forgot how good those thick, scarred fingers felt inside him. The knowledge of age coupled with the stamina of the gods had Lambert crooking his fingers and striking Jaskier's sweet spot on the first fucking try. He no longer cared that he was still half dressed, Lambert mostly clothed, as long as they kept touching.

Shoving the unfairly sexy leather breeches down his hips, Lambert pulled Jaskier down the bed, head of his oiled cock brushing his hole. “You want it?” he growled.

Jaskier stopped panting for a moment, stopped arching and writhing under the hot touches and pushed himself up on his elbows, glaring down at Lambert. “What are the odds I'd let you get this far and _didn't_ want it?”

Lambert smirked. “Geralt's right, you are a cheeky shit. I won't keep you in suspense.” The second Lambert's head pressed inside, Jaskier locked his ankles behind his ass, pulling him in. This pushed a shocked little breath from Lambert's lungs and he bottomed out. He dipped his head to Jaskier's neck, licking the salty skin there. “Impatient much?”

“You're the one who didn't get undressed,” Jaskier shot back, angling his hips for Lambert to go deeper. “You want a dirty fast fuck? I'm happy to oblige.”

Lambert was a little slow to begin with, testing the enthusiastic human's limits. But Geralt and Eskel's stories were more true than he thought, as Jaskier growled and demanded more, pulling at his tunic, scratching what little bare skin he managed to find. Lambert had trouble holding the feral, twisting man under him and fuck if it didn't make him harder. He snapped his hips faster and Jaskier got louder.

Legs still wrapped around Lambert, Jaskier squeezed, holding on for what looked to be a great ride. His foot caught on something hard and metal. Brain soaked with sex, Jaskier was still a semi-professional Witcher fucker, he knew exactly what that metal bit was. “Fuck, Lambert, you didn't even take off the knife?”

Not missing a push, Lambert said, “Didn't take any of them off. I'm not the kind to get caught with my pants down.”

“Seriously?” Jaskier spent the next few minutes feeling out all the secret spots Witchers carried their back up daggers, as if the two scary swords weren't enough of a deterrent. Geralt had two extra knives, Eskel had three. With the one at his back, his hip, his other hip, under his arm, and probably in his boot, Lambert had five. Five extra daggers. “You know,” Jaskier panted. “It's a good thing I'm not afraid of Witchers... five blades might make a man think you had bad intentions.”

Lambert chuckled and rolled his hips, thrusting deeper still. “This is the only thing I want to stab you with. Now come on, pretty bird, sing for me.”

His little knife hunt was a distraction from the waves of pleasure rolling through him from toes to the top of his head. Jaskier had learned several ways to increase his stamina and keep up with his Witcher, but now it was too much. He reached down to stroke his cock and felt golden eyes watching. Lambert's tongue slid along his teeth. “Show me how you like it,” he rasped.

As soon as Lambert put _that_ thought in his head, Jaskier forgot all about the excessive number of blades covering the Witcher. Hell, Lambert could fuck him wearing a whole armory's worth of swords, as long as impatient, golden eyes were there to drink in the sights of Jaskier pulling himself off.

He started with long, slow strokes from the base of his cock all the way up to the head, playing with his foreskin a little before swiping his thumb across the slit. With Lambert above him, devouring him with his eyes, the pounding cock in his ass, Jaskier barely got three whole tugs in before he came, come sliding down his fingers as he wrung every last pulse from himself.

His ass clenched and Lambert growled, hips stuttering for a moment before slamming one last time. Jaskier felt the twitching, pulsing cock inside of him and produced one last weak dribble before collapsing back onto the bed, completely spent.

Lambert pulled out and staggered back, as shivery and uncoordinated as Jaskier. He shook himself. “Fuck, bard, no wonder you've got Geralt absolutely crazy for you.”

“Mmm, the feeling is mutual.” Jaskier stretched and frowned at the stickiness covering him. “Ugh, I hate clean up.” He stumbled from the bed and over to the wash basin, throwing Lambert a wet cloth before starting on himself.

Once he was wiped down and no longer covered in come, Jaskier flopped back onto the bed and pulled the rest of his clothes off. Lambert stood on the other side of the room, cock tucked away, but breeches half open. “Would you like to stay?” Jaskier mumbled. His eyes grew heavy and all he wanted to do was sleep. “No hard feelings, if you already have a room. But you can stay.”

He closed his eyes, but knew the smile on Lambert's face. It's what they all looked like the first time Jaskier showed them kindness. Witchers were so used to being spit on and kicked in the street, show the tiniest consideration and they were yours forever, and Jaskier would never abuse the gift of their affection.

The bed dipped and Lambert pressed up behind him. “Good night, pretty bird.”

“Good night.” Jaskier reached back to pat Lambert's thigh and sighed. “At least take off most of the knives.”

3\. Geralt

Jaskier trooped into Geralt's room hoping to grab a mid-afternoon nap. They arrived at Kaer Morhen two days ago and Vesemir was already at it with the chores. Nothing too taxing—feed the animals, sweep the dining hall, Geralt's laundry, Lambert's laundry, Vesemir's laundry—but it was a lot. Once true winter set in and the castle was ready, naps could happen whenever (the most difficult decision was nap before fucking Geralt or after) but for the first few frantic weeks, Jaskier felt like he was getting away with something.

Geralt was already asleep, had been for two days. The first time he wintered at Kaer Morhen, Jaskier had a terrible fright when Geralt went to bed and didn't wake up for two and a half days. Vesemir explained, “Even though they've been sculpted for it, The Path is difficult. Winter is their time to rest. He'll be up and around in a few days.” He didn't panic anymore when Geralt essentially went into hibernation, but Jaskier did check in on him throughout the day, sometimes snagging a nap himself.

He stripped off his clothes and lifted the covers. Despite the chill that permeated every part of the castle, Jaskier took a moment to admire Geralt's naked body. Winter was the only time he let himself be truly bare—no knife secreted in his boot or sitting close enough to grab at a moment's notice. He loved them all very dearly, but Jaskier was beyond tired of getting poked by an unexpected scabbard while pulling them out of their clothes and offering his ass.

He crawled into the bed and snuggled up. Geralt moaned in his sleep and a heavy arm pulled Jaskier in close, pushing the bard's head under his chin. Geralt's breath was slow, deep and even, still asleep, so Jaskier took this opportunity to run his fingers all over. Across the small of his back—daggerless—down his hips—also free of weaponry. He sighed happily and buried his face in Geralt's wide chest.

The world was a harsh and cruel place, no one knew this better than a Witcher. And though their respite was short, Jaskier thanked every god and goddess he knew the name of that they had a place to rest, a place where they could set their weapons down for a few precious months and just breathe.

4\. Vesemir

Jaskier walked into the library, stack of books pinned under his chin. None of the others were fond of returning their books to the proper shelves, so every week, Jaskier raided their rooms and put them all back in the library. At least Vesemir seemed to appreciate his efforts to keep the library books in the library, not lost in the drafty keep forever.

Speaking of Vesemir, Jaskier heard a soft snore and set his load down on a table. Just as he thought, Vesemir was sleeping on one of the couches, book open across his stomach, head leaned back at a bad angle. “You're going to be a right bastard when you wake up,” Jaskier mumbled. Abandoning his task for a moment, he walked over to Vesemir's couch.

He couldn't stay like that, his neck would kill for days, and the resulting grumpiness would spread to Geralt, then Eskel, and finally Lambert. Not how Jaskier wanted to spend the next few days. On the other hand, if he woke Vesemir while trying to move him, that might be worse. He'd shout and grunt about how he didn't need any help, an old Witcher was still ten times more useful than a strong, young human.

Deciding the lecture was better than a few days of a castle filled with moping, Jaskier removed the book from his chest before placing both hands on Vesemir's shoulders, easing him down onto the couch...

A sudden loud snore startled Jaskier, and he jumped, hands slipping away for a moment. Vesemir started falling faster and Jaskier caught him in the nick of time, settling him down onto the couch, head on a pillow. Only now, his arm was stuck under Vesemir. Here's a thing Jaskier learned about Witchers: they were solid men. Didn't matter how tall they were, how big around, or if they were in that horrifying skinny state when they had to go without food for lack of coin (Jaskier hated the day Geralt told him about that; oh yes, Witchers could survive starvation just in case, what kind of bullshit was that?) point was, all Witchers were solid, through and through. Whether they looked it or not, every muscle was as thick and heavy as a sack of wet clay, and Vesemir was no exception.

Since he got himself into this predicament, Jaskier might be inclined to accept his fate and wait for Vesemir to wake, but the Witcher shifted and something hard and metal bit down on Jaskier's wrist. “Fuck!” he hissed, frantically pulling to get his arm free. A small buckle scraped across his arm and Jaskier grunted. “A knife, seriously? In your own keep? It's winter!” They were terrible, all of them, Eskel with his extra knife, Lambert with his armory, and now Vesemir with his back up knife in the safety of his library, a thousand feet up a fucking mountain.

Jaskier's fingers began to tingle with lack of blood and he yanked at his arm again, sliding free and falling back onto the floor. “Fuck.” He flexed his fingers a few times and the feeling started coming back. One of these days, he was going to sit them all down and explain the grand majority of people didn't want to sneak attack a Witcher. Seriously, how many knives did one man need?

5\. Jaskier

Coming down the mountain after a long winter was a ritual unto itself, emerging from the sleepy stupor of the colder months into the slowly blooming spring below. The air was still cold and biting, but the snows were receding, people and animals returning to the land, along with the monsters of the world. Still, they had a few weeks before the first big contracts would start coming in and Geralt liked to indulge Jaskier in a stay at an inn before they started out on The Path. He deserved it after the trip down the mountain.

Geralt returned to their room from the tavern below, two plates of food balanced on one hand. He closed the door behind him and turned...

To find Jaskier asleep, sprawled across the bed diagonally. Geralt sighed and put their meals down. “Might as well take his clothes off so he doesn't moan about wrinkles when he wakes.” He'd undressed a sleeping Jaskier before, after too many drinks at a festival, or a courtly ball. Whenever Jaskier woke, he was always grateful for Geralt's care and thanked him with a mouth around his cock.

The boots were the easiest, feet dangling off the bed as they were. He unlaced a few ties and off they came into his hands. Geralt was about to set Jaskier right boot aside when the gleam of metal caught his eye. Tucked into an old boot scabbard Geralt sort of recognized from a shelf in the armory, was a knife he did not recognize. It was shaped like a spade, meant to be concealed in the palm before stabbing the enemy in the gut (or more sensitive areas). The dark silver of the knife gleamed in the weak candle light of the room, and at the bottom of the short hilt, Geralt saw a small engraving. He ran his finger over the grooves. A buttercup.

A gift then, but a gift from who? Who thought Jaskier might be on his knees and need easy access to a weapon?

Geralt set the dagger aside and went back to Jaskier's clothes. He was about to roll the bard over when a hard lump at the small of his back made him stop again. Another dagger, this one belted down like the one they all carried. “Who the hell gave you this one?” he grumbled.

As soon as he tried to remove this dagger, Jaskier stirred. “Get back, ruffian,” he mumbled, blue eyes focusing on Geralt.

“Vesemir.” Well, that answered that question. Vesemir was the only one old enough to see 'ruffian' as a devastating insult.

“Mmm, the one in my boot is from Lambert. They're all shocked an appalled that you let me walk around unarmed.”

“They've never seen you almost stab yourself on a spindle.” Geralt continued taking Jaskier out of his clothes. Their food was getting cold, but there was something nice about touching Jaskier again after the trip down the mountain, where they were both too exhausted or too cold to do much of anything for a few days.

“That wasn't my fault. What kind of spinner leaves her spinning wheel in the middle of the room?”

“Spindles aren't even sharp, Jaskier.” Geralt's fingers traveled over warm skin, pressing firmly, not tickling. Jaskier stretched and preened, letting him touch wherever he pleased. Tracing along squishy hips and an extra plush belly, Geralt sighed happily at Jaskier's well fed winter body. He loved the extra few pounds Vesemir's cooking packed on them all and hadn't been able to see Jaskier's ribs in months.

He grabbed Geralt's hand and pushed it downwards until rough fingers brushed the head of his cock. “This isn't sharp either...”

As far as come ons went, this wasn't his best. Geralt climbed into bed anyway, their lips meeting for a quick kiss before he moved down. He licked at Jaskier's tender throat, teeth scraping across his adam's apple, then licking along the ridge of his collarbones. Sweaty from their journey, Jaskier's skin was salty and musky, just the way Geralt liked it. Jaskier preferred to be clean whenever possible, dragging them all down to the hot springs to bathe and wash until they gleamed, and they all tolerated his attention, but there was nothing like the thick smell of exertion and a little smoke from their camp fires, all embedded in his skin and hair for the moment. At first chance, Jaskier would scrub it all away, but for now, Geralt was going to drink in as much as possible.

“Oh, Geralt, I'm filthy,” Jaskier sighed.

“You're the one who suggested it.” He lifted Jaskier's legs and stuck his face right next to his sac, where the smell of his natural musk was thickest.

“Ack!” Jaskier flailed a bit. “I thought maybe a quick hand, then order a bath... Geralt, don't you dare...”

The threat hung in the air as Geralt contemplated sticking his nose a little _lower_. But he knew what filthiness Jaskier would tolerate and what he wouldn't, and pulled back, licking a long stripe up his cock before doing what Jaskier wanted. Licking his palm, Geralt wrapped a hand around them both, resting his forehead against Jaskier's, breathing the same air.

Practice made perfect, and he knew exactly what Jaskier liked. Rotating his wrist, brushing his thumb over the slit, Jaskier jerked, almost levitating off the bed. It had been a long trip down the mountain... Long-fingered hands grabbed at Geralt, touching any bit of skin that came near. Geralt thrust against him, with only spit for slick, it was rough and just what they needed. He felt Jaskier's balls draw up tight and gave one last firm squeeze.

Geralt couldn't help but lick his lips watching Jaskier come all over his hand, streaks of white so pungent in the air, he tasted it in the back of his throat. Heat burned down his spine and Geralt added his own mess to Jaskier's stomach, moaning and making an indecent racket with those beautiful eyes focused on him and him alone.

Spent for the night, Jaskier relaxed back onto the bed and Geralt bent over him, licking the sticky mess away. Jaskier shuddered, sensitive right after, all his nerves sparking at Geralt's soft tongue. Once he found every trace of their spend, Geralt slumped down next to Jaskier, basking in his scent for a little longer.

Bleary eyed and exhausted, Jaskier sighed. “Do I have to get dressed to call for a bath?”

“Yes, you do.”

With another groan, Jaskier rolled out of bed and shrugged into his breeches and undershirt, then flopped back onto the bed. Geralt made sure the human was decent before ordering the bath sent up—Jaskier had no modesty to speak of, but he drew the line at looking 'rumpled.' He'd thank Geralt later for the small kindness.

When the bath was filled, Jaskier got in first and scrubbed quickly. He was never as filthy as Geralt and was much more efficient when needed. Geralt put it down to a life time of relative cleanliness, Jaskier didn't see the rarified pleasure in even the simplest bath. Geralt, who spent his life covered in guts, blood, dirt and more guts, relished the simple pleasure even a small wash bucket brought. The water reheated with the help of Igni, Geralt sank into the bath with a deep, happy sigh.

Jaskier couldn't smell for shit, not compared to a Witcher or most keen humans, but set a plate of food anywhere near him and he'd find it in two seconds. His time as a struggling bard made him a good scavenger, on the look out for food at all times. “Did you say something about dinner?” He craned his neck, trying to find the food he definitely smelled. Geralt flailed a lazy hand over to the desk where their meals lay, getting cold. Jaskier collected his food and ate, sitting cross legged and naked on the bed, watching Geralt enjoy his soak.

He was done for the night (the downside of being a human) but he knew Geralt might want more. Scratch that: Geralt always wanted more, he was just too polite to ask. Finishing his food, Jaskier set his empty plate aside and sat down next to the bath. Geralt acknowledged him with a grunt but didn't open his eyes.

The first touch to his shoulder produced and soft grumble, a little acknowledgment of Jaskier's presence. Jaskier slid his hand down Geralt's shoulder, over his bicep—relaxed, but he knew of the coiled steel that lurked under that skin—and down to tickle the bend of his elbow. Geralt turned and nosed at Jaskier's neck, close enough to kiss.

“Mmm,” Geralt mumbled into his skin. “You smell great.”

“And so do you. Now.” Jaskier turned his head away, giving Geralt more room to lick and nuzzle at his neck while he slipped a hand in the bath. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but Jaskier managed to stretch far enough to wrap his fingers around Geralt's cock, already half hard. Later, he'd blame the hot water for _stimulating_ blood flow, but Geralt was just a dirty old man who couldn't resist Jaskier's charms.

Jaskier ran his thumb up the side of his cock, from the base, all the way up to the head, gently teasing foreskin and around the crown of Geralt's head. He licked his lips, imagining that cock in his mouth. Clean now, Jaskier had no more objections to where Geralt put his face.

Geralt liked to pretend mind reading wasn't one of his Witcher enhancements, Jaskier never believed him, especially when he whispered things like, “You'll dirty the bathwater,” into his hair.

“And what are we to do about that?”

Geralt pulled away from Jaskier's neck, which was covered in beautiful red bites now, and stood up. Water dripped down in little rivulets and Jaskier quickly moved to his knees to chase each drop with his tongue. He followed one drop up Geralt's thick thigh to the inside of his groin, and over his sac. There was something wonderful about licking Geralt's balls after they were freshly cleaned, still masculine and musky, but with a softness to the skin that wasn't usually there. Jaskier took his time finding every last drip of water clinging to the wet skin before opening his mouth and sucking Geralt down.

“Mmm, yes.” Fingers laced through his hair, holding, not pushing. Running his tongue along the heavy vein and up to circle the head, Jaskier tried to hit all of Geralt's sweet spots. His hand at the base took care of what his mouth could not hold and Jaskier spent the next few minutes licking Geralt like a sweet: languid, relaxed and unhurried, enjoying the clean skin against his tongue.

The slow build did more than a frantic pace and soon enough, Geralt groaned, fingers tightening against Jaskier's scalp. “Jaskier...” Soft like a sigh, it was all the warning he got before Geralt came, far too much spend splashing across Jaskier's tongue. He swallowed it all down, only a few drips escaping.

Geralt slipped from his mouth and back into the bath, more relaxed than he was before. Some years ago, he wouldn't think it was possible for him to be this happy with his life. The blood, the death, all of it seemed too dark to let any small light in. But then again, Jaskier wasn't a small light, he was a bonfire, a force to be reckoned with, and he would not let Geralt sulk in the dark any longer.

Eyes drooping closed, Geralt sighed and looked up at Jaskier. “Please don't wear those daggers. You'll kill yourself.” Jaskier wasn't just accident prone, he was a special kind of accident prone, the sort of man who might gore himself on the blunt corner of a table.

Jaskier shrugged. “Fine, I won't carry the knives. But you have to explain to Lambert why you made me reject his sweet gift. He had it engraved for me and everything.” A small price to pay for Jaskier's safety.

A few more minutes in the bath and Geralt got out. He let Jaskier dry him a little before flopping into the bed, the hot water pushing him deeper into exhaustion. Sharp fingers poked and prodded until Geralt rolled over, and Jaskier settled on his chest. Tomorrow, they could start looking for work, but for tonight, they had one last moment of calm.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I say this as a person who is very, very clumsy: accident prone Jaskier is adorable to me. It's probably a little impractical, what with how much he travels on his own, but come on, Geralt talking about how Jaskier manages to hurt himself on blunt objects is gold.
> 
> Yes, the +1 was in the middle of the fic. I sometimes like to change up the format a little, makes it feel fresh to me.


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